


The Eighth Annual Merry Un-Christmas

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Batman/DC Comics (rp-verse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even no tradition is a tradition all its own</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eighth Annual Merry Un-Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The Eighth Annual Merry Un-Christmas  
>  Fandom: Batman/DC Comics (rp-verse)  
>  Word count: 747  
>  Warnings: None. Not even any foul language, damn it.  
>  Summary: Even no tradition is a tradition all its own  
>  Author's Note: This is set in the [Urban Legends](http://ultribunal.hyperchat.com) rp Bat-verse. The Chloe mentioned is Chloe Martin, an OC that takes up the Huntress mantle after the Huntress from the RP timeline is killed. Martha is Martha Wayne, daughter of Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle. This is set in the years after Bruce's untimely and violent demise (poor Bruce).

They celebrate every Christmas the same after Bruce is gone. A pattern is set the first year and they never manage to deviate, no matter how they might try. And for Martha’s sake, for awhile, they really do try. Dick and Tim take turns as Santa, Barbara and Chloe read her all the appropriate stories. But the efforts are always half-hearted and the youngest Wayne knows it. She comes to them all at Thanksgiving dinner the year she turns twelve and tells them not to bother. “Santa’s not real. Christmas isn’t real. Don’t worry about it anymore.” Like the rest of the family, she grew up too quickly. They don’t argue with her proclamation. They just mourn her lack of innocence and childhood instead.

There isn’t a tree – Alfred was the only one who still went to the trouble of getting one or putting it up in the aftermath, but no one even thinks of doing it now, since the old butler is gone. The horde of decorations in the attic go untouched now, left to gather dust and wait for the next generation to decide if they ever need to see the light of day. Carols and Christmas specials are effectively banned; no one even bothers turning the television on in the old house from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. No one bothers to roast a turkey or cook a ham. They order Chinese take out from the Golden Dragon – the one and only place still willing to deliver on Christmas Eve – instead and gather ‘round the coffee table in the sitting room for their holiday meal. Someone shoves the furniture out of the way – usually Dick, because the man of the house is responsible for all heavy lifting, according to Tim – so that the quintet can lay claim to the rug in front of the fireplace. Someone – also usually Dick – helps Barbara onto the floor and relegates the wheel chair to a forgotten corner, out of sight, but never out of mind.

Tim, at some point, gives up on his chopsticks like he does every year; Chloe produces a fork from seemingly thin air and hands it over only after teasing him for the prearranged amount of time. Barbara inevitably gets bored of her Moo Goo Gai Pan and starts stealing bites off the other plates, at least the ones within arm’s reach. Dick retreats to the couch if only to defend his Kung Pao Chicken from redheaded invaders and describes every delicious bite until the first fortune cookie hits him in the head.

Silence settles when the last grain of rice is eaten, taking the last tangible distraction with it. The five stare into the dying fire, watching the flames devour the wood as efficiently as regret devours each of them. There’s a sixth presence in the room, an invisible, cowl-wearing Marley rattling unheard chains as he walks amongst them. He heeds a warning, if they would just listen: his life offered up as a cautionary tale. “Don’t turn into me,” he whispers. None of them can hear him. None of them want to.

As the what if’s and I should’ves burn out, everyone but Martha abandons the rug and the empty cartons and the last flickering embers. Once they would have shooed her off to bed with warnings about Santa and bad little girls who stayed up past their bedtimes not getting presents. Now Chloe just pats her head as she passes and says, “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Won’t,” she promises. The grown ups don’t need to know it’s a lie.

The only light left in the room comes from the feeble glow of dying sparks beyond the fireplace grate and the spill of snow-reflected moonlight coming through the curtains behind her, but it’s enough that she can make out the picture in the silver frame on the mantle. Part of her remembers his square jaw, his stern eyes. Part of her remembers the shadows that lingered in those eyes even when he smiled, shadows that even a toddler could see. She was four when he died. All she has are glimpses of eyes and a jaw and a picture on the mantle that wears a smile that’s a lie.

Part of her knows the man in the picture wasn’t any more real than Santa Claus or flying reindeer, but he’s all she’s got.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy,” she says as she stretches out on the rug, her head pillowed on her arms.


End file.
